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Calvin (I never knew you)

By Daniel Gumbiner | June 23, 2005

In the Spinning Straw into Gold workshop, taught by Martin Nouvell, students learned techniques of nonfiction writing and journaling by developing a Writer’s Sketchbook containing short pieces reflecting their lives and imaginations.

Prompt: I Remember

I have this vague memory of a well known aristocratic and wise looking man. His name was Calvin, maybe Cal, maybe not, no definitely not actually; they’d never nickname him after his alma mater. Definitely not. He’s old; I know this because he’s old in my mangled child altered memory so he must be ancient now. He was well read, impressive, and brilliant. He talked of foreign countries and his various worldly travels. He was very worldly. I know this because in my late night reminiscent dreams he speaks of rustic French avenues and pubs in Dublin, frostbitten by Ireland’s wretched winters. He must be even worldlier now; he must’ve seen every nook and cranny on the planet. If anyone’s seen every nook, not to mention every cranny, it’s Calvin; I’m sure it is.

He quoted Hemmingway and whisked through classics like teenage hogwash drama. He had an acute wit, a finely toned and adjusted sense of humor befitting for a man of his stature and grace. He was Churchill.

He had a daughter, she was unconventionally beautiful and conventionally talented like the family patriarch. I was jealous, I hated her, I wanted to be herded by Calvin, guided, trusted, and enlightened, by his passions. She received all of it, I was a side note and she was his prized concerto. I yearned to be him, to gain his respect, but I was only a toddler, how could I have felt this. I couldn’t have, I didn’t.

He’s gone now, probably off somewhere worldly; he was very worldly. He’s probably reading Shakespeare on a Greek Isle while simultaneously quoting Roosevelt, and Da Vinci. He’s probably rich, in love; loved, cherished by his peers. I don’t want to be him, I don’t want to feel anything concerning him, I just want to embrace this dull chasm, this longing of the unknown, this warped childhood notion.